The ravens had flown weeks before, carrying my summons to Greywater Watch. I had not expected a swift reply—House Reed was ever elusive, their hall hidden in the shifting swamps of the Neck. Yet one morning, word came from the guards on the southern road: a small party approached, clad in leathers and skins, their mounts ill‑suited to the saddle. Crannogmen.
I went down to the gates myself. It was not for courtesy alone. Howland Reed had fought beside me at the Tower of Joy, and though we had spoken little since, I owed him more than I could ever repay. When he dismounted, mud‑spattered and travel‑worn, I clasped his hand as a brother.
"I had not thought to see you again so soon," he said, his voice quiet, his eyes sharp as a marsh hawk's. "But my father showed me your letters. You wrote of a project that would concern the Neck and Moat Cailin. He judged you would need Crannogman counsel."
"I am glad he sent you," I told him. "Come. We have much to discuss."
We walked together through Winterfell's stone halls, the chill of the North seeping through the walls. In my solar, maps and ledgers lay strewn across every surface, the fruit of sleepless nights. I gestured for him to sit.
"I plan to make the North into an island," I said.
He blinked, puzzled. I allowed myself a rare smile. "Let me explain. I mean to cut a canal—from the Fever River, through Moat Cailin, to the Bite."
Howland whistled softly. "A bold dream."
"At first, only wide enough for barges," I continued. "But in time, deep and broad enough for ships. It would drain the swamps, open farmland, and bind east and west together. At its heart, Moat Cailin rebuilt—not only as fortress, but as market and gate."
Howland leaned forward, his expression grave. "You would never manage it without us. And even with us, you do not yet grasp the dangers. The Neck is no gentle land. To find safe water to drink is trial enough. There are snakes whose bite kills in moments, lizards that rot the flesh, plants that poison with a touch. Fevers rise from the mists, and men waste away before a fortnight is done. And that is before you reckon with the ground itself—mire that swallows horses, bogs that shift beneath your feet."
I listened, weighing each word. "I will not see my men's lives wasted," I said. "That is why I wrote to your house first. If it can be done, it must be done—for the good of the North."
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "That is one of the reasons I have always liked you, Stark. You count the cost in lives, not only in victories. Few commanders did, in the war."
"I will have to ask my father," Howland went on. "But I do not think our people dwell in the northern reaches of the Neck. If some do, you must make fair terms with them—land or payment for the loss of their hunting grounds. Otherwise, they will not forgive the trespass."
"Of course," I said. "It would be just and fair. I would not rob them of their rights."
He gave a thin smile. "Good. Then I will help you. But know this: it will be hard. Twenty miles from the Fever River to Moat Cailin, and more than a hundred from Moat Cailin to the Bite. You will need guides to lay the route, to move men and supplies. And even then, many will be lost."
"I know," I said quietly. "But weakness has cost us more. Too much. I will see this done, whatever the years, whatever the price."
Howland rose at last, his small frame casting a long shadow across the maps. "I will send word to my father," he said. "And I will send guides. But Stark—be ready. The Neck does not yield easily."
When he left me, the solar felt colder, the candlelight dimmer. I stared down at the inked lines of rivers and swamps, and for the first time I wondered not whether the canal could be built, but what it might cost me to try.
A knock came at the door before I could chase the thought further. One of my guards entered, breathless from haste. "My lord," he said, "a raven from the Wall. The Lord Commander himself rides south to meet you."